


First Name Basis

by inbox



Series: Church and State [9]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Anal Fingering, Dry Humping, Dry Orgasm, Erectile Dysfunction, Frottage, Grinding, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Oral Sex, Prostate Massage, Prostate Milking, Sexual Dysfunction, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 12:37:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17808089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/pseuds/inbox
Summary: Deacon takes Church back to his room, cramped and dark with a narrow slat bed and a washbasin and not much else, and gets him naked with more eagerness than he was expecting from himself. Maybe he's just curious. Maybe he’s excited to see how the asshole he wasted his life trailing around had been shipwrecked on time’s rocky shore.Or he just wants to get his dick sucked. That's acceptable too.Deacon/Male Sole Survivor Church.





	First Name Basis

**Author's Note:**

> Courtesy warnings: non op character, non op bj, frot/grinding, no penetration, non op ejaculation.  
> Language choices: hole, dick, cock.
> 
> Sequel to [Clandestine Operational Techniques](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8736076?view_full_work=true) and [Risk to Reward](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15904986).

Deacon can't help himself. He heard a word from a guy who knew a guy who worked with a guy who know a guy. Knew _the_ guy. The guy of guys, the great white whale Deacon wasted nearly two years of his life chasing; first out of curiosity, then out of concern, then out of bloody-minded determination.

Of _course_ he can't help himself. It's too good to pass up.

Church. Senior Scribe Church now, no longer a boot in Maxson’s army. Too old and hacked up to cut it in the field, now content to spend the rest of his life ass up in the guts of the big ol’ hydrogen jennies that power Maxson’s airfield full of toy planes.

It's a fitting end. A relic tending relics, kept busy because these days even the Brotherhood relies on its antiques more than they'd like to admit.

If Deacon was smart he would've kept to his original brief and not taken a diversion out to press his face against the chain-link fence and eyeball something he'd never seen before: sleek gliders being launched from rails, long silver birds arcing across the sky, eerily silent on a cool Fall day.

Hey, he's never claimed to be a man devoid of curiosity.

Deacon gets out of Dodge when some tin cans take an interest in the wastelander sniffing around the western airfield, retreats back south to meet his contacts, and revises his plans to take a little holiday in the pleasant surrounds of JointFo. Soldiers, flyboys, and enough loose lips to sink some airships.

Maybe on the way he stops to get get his head clippered gleaming bald, does a few half-hearted wall push-ups, buys a clean shirt. He's being practical. There's no age limit on being a honeypot, and he's not above a lil’ hands on recon in the off-base bar.

The guy looks like shit. Eye gone, listing heavy to port when he walks. A few fellas give Deacon a faintly incredulous look when he beelines to Church’s side and slides onto the seat next to him with zero subtlety. There's a dozen good looking men he could work over, yet yet he's gone straight to the sour ol’ wreck nursing a soda in one hand and a barely touched jigger of something dark in the other.

Same old self flagellation. Same old tiresome temptation of self. _Boring as hell_ , he tells himself, and touches Church's knee and sunnily asks what a fella has to do to get a drink around here. To his credit the guy doesn't need to be prompted. He gives Deacon the once over, toe to tip, and says he can do Deacon better than one measly drink.

He takes Church back to his room, cramped and dark with a narrow slat bed and a washbasin and not much else, and gets him naked with more eagerness than he was expecting from himself. Maybe he's just curious. Maybe he’s excited to see how the asshole he wasted two years of his life trailing around had been shipwrecked on time’s rocky shore.

Or he just wants to get his dick sucked. All of the above was acceptable.

“You lost an eye?”

Church touches his eyelid, the skin glossy deep pink in a messy spray from his brow to his cheekbone. “Devils egg,” he says. “Raider trick. Explosives in one side, acid in the other. Acid’ll eat through and set the explosive off as a surprise, or some idiot will knock the thing by accident and take it in the face.”

“You're the idiot.”

“I'm the idiot,” he agrees, and fondles his dick as Deacon strips with perfunctory speed.

Deacon gives him the once-over, lingering over Church’s half-hard cock cupped in his palm. “You capable of getting that up?”

To his surprise Church doesn't rise to the bait. “Maybe.” He shrugs. “Maybe not. Been a long day.” He squeezes himself gently, tugs at the cut head. “But I've got a feeling I can do something for you regardless. I've done it before, right?”

Deacon crawls onto the bed, walks up the thin coverlet on his knees. “Presumptuous. I like that.” He rubs at the stubble on his chin and forces away the faint tickle of apprehension he can feel at the back of his throat. Never let the audience know you're nervous. You're the star, baby! “But correct,” he adds, and shrugs his shoulders in an exaggerated _aww shucks_. “We’re acquainted.”

“I fucking knew it.” He scowls up at Deacon. “I _knew_ I recognised you from somewhere.”

“Whoops,” says Deacon cheerfully, and pats at Church’s chest like he'd pet a big dog. “Busted.”

“Hard to forget the moron that robbed me blind,” says Church tartly. He slides down the pillows anyway, sprawling flat on the mattress and patting his chest in invitation. “You're not as inconspicuous as you think you are, Mister…?”

“Deacon,” he says, and straddles Church's chest. The spread of his thighs pulls him wide, showing off the thick bud of his dick standing proud ‘neath a bush of russet hair. “Technically I robbed you twice.”

“Deacon,” Church repeats, committing the name to memory. “Guess I shouldn't feel flattered that you parked up so fast at the bar.”

“Oh no, you should for _sure_ feel flattered,” says Deacon cheerfully, and grins when Church unconsciously wets his lips at the sight of him jerking off so close to his face. “I made a trip back for you specifically.”

He picks up Church's hand and rests it on his knee, and gets that good lil’ curl of heat in his belly when he immediately starts stroking back and forth against the grain of his hair, each pass sweeping closer and closer to the twin smears of wet matting his inner thighs. “I’m curious and generous,” he adds, and smirks when Church rolls his good eye. “Think of it this way: now you’ve got that once in a lifetime catch, caught twice.”

“Jesus.” He thumbs Deacon wide, takes a good look at his stiff thick dick and his wet hole. “Move up. Sit on my face.”

“Sure,” he says flippantly. “You earned it.” They awkwardly bump against each other, legs and arms threaded this way and that until Church's hands are kneading deep into the flesh of his ass and his deep breaths striking cool on his hole. He presses a fingertip against Church's forehead, holding him back. “Nothing goes in,” he says seriously. “No fingers, no funny business.”

“Scouts honour,” he says, equally serious. Then, more fitting, he grins sorta lopsidedly and digs his fingertips deep into Deacon’s glutes, a pressure right on the borderline of setting his sciatic nerves howling. “Fuck my mouth.”

“Baby, you ask so nicely. I'd be honoured to sit on that face.”

This gets him nothing more than a cursory roll of his eyes - and something about that makes Deacon's belly do a little flop, like getting called on his bullshit is _special_ \- then Church pushes him down onto his face and Deacon’s brain checks itself out for a while.

Church sucks him off like he's been waiting for the privilege. He covers his teeth and Deacon can't stop the jackrabbity thrusts he makes into that wet heat. Church lets him get it out of his system before he holds Deacon’s bony hips and sets an easy pace, long luxurious sucks from root to tip. The tip of his tongue teasing ‘round Deacon’s foreskin and making him shudder, too much texture, too much sensation, too much too quickly.

He grabs at the bed head for balance and rubs at his dick in short sharp circles, feeling it stiffen under his fingertips as he says _jesus, fuck, I'm gonna--_ and cums in hard wet bursts across Church’s face, cheek to chin and arcing over his forehead.

Look, maybe it's been a little while since he's had the delight of doing that to someone. A while. A few months. Definitely no longer than, uh, two years. So sue him if he zones out for a while, chin on his chest, slumped back on Church heavy enough that the guy has to be feeling it in his lungs.

Chutch gives him a minute to recoup, wiping the worst of the wet off his eyelids and looks up at Deacon as he sucks his fingers clean. The milky sheen of his scarred eye is startling bright against his unexpectedly long eyelashes, clumped together in dark wet spikes.

“Don't look so smug,” says Deacon. He rubs the inside of his thighs, willing some strength back into his aching quads.

“Wouldn't dream of it.” He absentmindedly pets at Deacon’s knees, thumbs rubbing idly at the hard jut of his kneecaps. “You gonna kiss me?”

Deacon considers being mean, or bailing out of the room with his shoes in his hands and his jocks on the floor, but… well, fuck it. Being kissed sounds okay.

They kiss like teenagers, sloppy and out of sync, but good. So good. Deacon is astride Church’s thigh, grinding his dick into the stringy muscle as he holds Church down, a hand on each shoulder.

It's not enough to make him blow again, not by a long shot, but it's nice to do little more than grind against someone warm and willing without having an orgasm be a priority. It feels good. Church feels good. Of all the things he never expected to hear himself think, but… this is nice.

Church's cock is soft against his hip, but he's leaning into Deacon's rhythm, following his lead. He tries to get a handful of dick but Church slaps his hand away, says _don't bother_. He tries again and this time Church pulls his hand up and sets it on his chest, as pointed an action as he could make without directly telling him to knock it off.

“We should've done this last time,” Deacon mumbles into his mouth. He groped at Church’s pec, pinches his nipple hard. “I didn't know you could be fun.”

“I'm always fun.” He’s got his fingertip against Deacon’s asshole, pressing and rubbing but not trying to blast him dry. The pressure is enough to get Deacon wet enough to make grinding Church’s thigh an almost smooth slide, wet enough to make a noise when he arches his back and rubs at a new angle. It feels really goddamn good.

_Eyes on the prize, baby. Stay focused._

“Yet not that fun to people who might be trying to rob you though. Very rude, I thought. Inconsiderate.”

Church laughs into Deacon’s neck, and sucks a mark into his skin for good measure. “Call it a personality flaw. I'm fun to people who deserve it.”

“And I deserve it now?”

Maybe Church is lonelier than he thought, ‘cause he leans back into the pillow enough that he can see Deacon’s face without going cross eyed. “Sure,” he says casually. “You've got bad taste in men and a nice mouth.”

“Aww,” says Deacon, trying to not let Church's blunt assessment of him fuel the weird unexpected little twist in his gut. He stalls for time, booping him on the nose and grinning at the immediate scowl this produces. “You're not too bad yourself.”

“Stop talking shit and kiss me.”

“Counter offer: lemme suck you off.”

Church pulls a face like he's eaten something sour. “Don't bother. I'm not…” He trails off and gestures as his lap with an irritated wave of his wrist. “It's not a good week.” As if that explained anything.

Deacon bites back the insult that's on the tip of his tongue. “Mmmmno. Please. Let me--” He makes grabby hands at Church’s lap, indicates that he should spread his legs and let Deacon get to work.

There's a tightness at the edge of Church’s mouth that, to Deacon’s expert eye, radiates equal amounts of irritation and humiliation. “Fine,” he says, terse. “You want to waste your time, feel free.”

And the thing is that he can almost, _almost_ , get him there. Even soft Church’s dick is fun on a bun to play with; way cuter than its owner and with a better personality to boot. It's a nice size. Mouth sized. Deacon can swallow it without choking, really do the good nasty moves with his tongue all down the sensitive underside without a hard shaft to get in the way and trip his gag reflex. Church makes a bunch of pretty noises when Deacon slurps his way up from taint to crown, and makes even more when Deacon makes out with the soft skin between his balls and under his dick. He pumps a lazy pearl of precum when Deacon points his tongue and works open his piss slit, but he can't hold an erection to save himself. It's like the motor is running but the clutch is seized. Any higher than second gear and he stalls out.

But, hell, Deacon’s kinda into it. Kinda into Church too, all fucked up looking and old; even kinda into his soft cock, likes the way he can work it with his mouth without gagging. His own dick is rock hard between his legs, and he slips a hand down to tug at himself when Church grinds his hips up into his face, twitching uselessly on his tongue.

“Hey,” he says around Church’s dick. Then, when he lets it pop from his lips, _hey_ , more clearly. “Can I finger you?”

It takes a few moments for Church to come back online, blinking stupidly in the dim light thrown by the bedside lamp. “Can you--”

“Finger your asshole,” says Deacon, and helpfully wriggles his fingers in the air for emphasis. It's the hand he's just been using to jerk himself off. The thin string of wet stretching between his fingertips catches the light and Church swallows with an audible click when Deacon looks up from under his lashes and sucks ‘em clean.

“Yeah,” says Church, still blowjob-dumb. “Feel free.”

“Thanks Chief,” says Deacon with only a pinch of sarcasm to taste. “Glad to get you on board.”

He lavishes a last lingering kiss on the tip of his dick, licks up any salty precum with the rough topside of his tongue until Church makes a broken noise in the back of his throat and jerks his hips. He slips out of Deacon’s mouth, falling soft and wet across his thigh.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says, frustrated, staring at the ceiling. “Sorry.” He goes to cover himself up then flinches away, and settles for drumming his fingers on his belly. Twitch twitch twitch.

Deacon doesn't bother with platitudes. “I'm enjoying myself,” he says bluntly. “If I wasn't then I'd kick you out. You're not _that_ compelling.” He grins at Church’s grunt of annoyance, and slaps at his hip before rolling out of the way so Church can sprawl out, belly to the mattress and one knee frog-legged at right angles. A bit of rearranging - a pillow placed here, an ankle shoved there - and Deacon can grope Church’s ass to his heart’s content.

He raises an eyebrow when he presses his thumb to Church’s hole, tight and without any give. “Been a while?”

Church, to his credit, doesn't take the bait. “Once in a lifetime catch,” he says, tossing Deacon’s words back at him.

“Oh, _baby_ ,” says Deacon with mock rapturous delight. “I get to pop your cherry and I didn't even buy you dinner first.”

Church rolls his eyes and relaxes back into the grimy pillow. “Make me feel special. It's my first time.”

“A waste,” he says sadly, inelegantly crawling off the bed to find something greasy in his backpack. “Your asshole is the nicest part of you.”

“So I've heard.”

He sucks on his own fingers while Deacon digs through his meticulously organised travel kit. Deacon doesn't bother to hide his interest, staring up at the bed while he blindly feels through his stuff.

It's a show worth watching, ‘specially when Church swallows his fingers down deep, deep enough to get his saliva running thick. Pro move. Expert technique. Deacon’s mouth suddenly feels dry as the dirt outside.

Tightly rolled shirts, balled socks, toiletry bag. There's a pot of plain serviceable lanolin in the bottom. He could get Church pink and loose and all the way there with spit - and the fella has already started down that path, and _god_ does Deacon like the way Church's shoulder strains as he rolls up halfway to finger himself - but he wants to do this right, make it good, all for reasons he's not really sure about.

Maybe ‘cause there's nothing on the line tonight except a lil’ professional curiosity. Professional. _All professional_.

He gets the lanolin and vaults back onto the bed in record speed, unscrewing the pot and scooping up a messy glob. He doesn't bother warming it up, just knocks Church’s hand away and slops it onto his hole and pushes in, two fingers express and no waiting.

“Up,” he says, sliding his free hand under Church’s belly and giving him no choice but to be pulled upwards. “On your knees. I wanna watch that cute dick cum on my sheets.”

He arches his back and grunts when Deacon bumps his knuckles against his rim. “Beautiful,” Deacon proclaims, and does it again just to watch the muscles in Church's back tense up and release, twitchy as a brahmin bull bothered by a horsefly. He pauses to spit on Church's asshole with bulletproof accuracy, closing his eyes in beatific joy as the surprise makes Church get vice tight around his fingers for a moment. “Pretty asshole like that makes a fella want to fuck it.”

Church says something into the pillow. “Jesus,” he says, lifting his chin. He sounds spacey already. “Wouldn't say no if you're offering.”

“Sorry handsome. I packed light this trip. Just me and my talented fingers are all you're getting tonight.” He pats Church's asscheek with his free hand and squeezes it for good measure. “Next time.”

“I won't hold my breath,” he says, then moans real nice as Deacon coaxes another shivering twitch of his hips and a thin string of wet dripping from his dick, adding to the growing stain on the sheets.

He’s three fingers deep in Church’s ass when the guy locks up and jerks his head ‘round so fast his neck lets out a series of audible pops. “Wait. You robbed me twice?”

“Oh yeah,” he says, as light as you please. “I did say that, didn't I?”

“When? Where? The Diamond City lot? I changed the locks after you cleaned me out. Cost me a goddamn fortune.”

“Ah,” he says lightly. “Well.”

Deacon has gotta hand it to the arrogant prick. He's never seen someone look so angry while on his hands and knees, sweaty and disheveled with his balls in the breeze and his prostate being expertly worked by the best digits in the biz. It's impressive, ‘specially with that milky dud eye scowling at him.

Might as well go hard or go home, as the kids say.

“I broke into your house,” Deacon confesses. “You were in at the time,” he adds. “You and your boyfriend.” He spreads his fingers wide, pushing against the maddening heat of Church’s body. “I mean, you two were fucking at the time, so it's not like you even noticed I was there, but you were your own distraction.” He pauses for a second. “Or his dick was the distraction? Either works.”

“Fucks sakes,” says Church, but he gives up trying to stay angry and slumps back down to the mattress, rubbing his cheek on the pillow like a big needy cat. “You always push your luck, don't you.”

“Always,” he says cheerfully. “It's part of my charm.”

Church is still barely firm, his dick hanging soft but steadily dripping as Deacon rubs at his prostate and drags him relentlessly into the first crest of a dry orgasm, dragging it out in a long rolling wave that leaves him shivering and making broken soft noises. 

Hell of a sight. Hell of an ego boost. Deacon generously gives him some time to recover, as tempting as it is to spear him straight into the wonderful sensory overload of overstimulation. He keeps his fingers loose inside Church while he touches himself, tugging at his dick and trying not to think about how good it'd feel to fuck him right then and there, take him while he's boneless and open and desperate for it.

But, as they say, shit and wishes. No point in thinking about what he can't have, not when Church is starting to greedily push back onto Deacon, pushy and demanding and selfish as ever. God. He'd love to fuck him senseless. No ifs, ands or buts. Fantasising about railing this terrible irredeemable shithead into the mattress until he's incoherent and sex stupid and desperate for whatever Deacon gives him... well, it's a long trip home. He's gonna need _something_ to keep his bedroll warm at night, right?

"C'mon," says Church, looking back over his shoulder with that blind eye looking right at him. "I want--"

“Get your hand on your cock,” says Deacon, cutting him off at the pass. “Just the tip.”

Church, to his credit, doesn't argue for once. He drops his shoulder and wriggles his arm underneath himself, reaching back to hold his soft dick. His hand is shaking slightly, Deacon is delighted to spot. If he was an asshole he’d ask if it was from excitement, old age or the DTs. On the other hand two out of those three options imply his skills at fingering someone until they cum on their own thighs is lacking, and maybe he's in too good of a mood to roll those dice tonight.

Definitely. Definitely that.

He runs a fingertip down Church’s taint, gently drums his fingers on the baby soft skin behind his balls. “Rub your dick nice and slow. Treat yourself sweet, babydoll.”

It's not enough to get the guy hard even if he could, but Church lets out a shivery breath and says something incoherent into the sheets as he touches himself gently, making lazy circles over the head with the pads of his fingertips. Deacon cracks his knuckles, showboating to an audience of none, and wedges his fourth finger in Church's tight hole.

 _Fuck_ , grunts Church, hips jerking as he takes the full pressure of Deacon’s knuckles against his taut rim. He rocks back on his knees and jerks forward just as fast, half trying to get away from the push, half desperate to take more. He rubs faster at the head of his dick until he's making a wheezing thin noise. “Jesus,” he says. “Oh, _fuck_.”

“That's it, that's it…” He bumps Church’s hand aside and milks his dick, once, twice, squeezing his soft cock down firm and scoops up the big drop of cum he draws from him, smearing it on his fingers, rewetting Church’s hole until he can fuck him with his hand, hard to the knuckles. “Get your hand back there. Rub yourself off.”

He does as he's told - the first time ever, maybe, thinks Deacon, uncharitable as ever - and rubs the head of his dick in short tight circles, until he's panting _fuck me fuck me fuck me_ and coming on Deacon’s hand. He drops his dick to clutch at the sheets and fuck himself through it, twitching and shuddering as he uses Deacon’s fingers deep inside him to spin out his orgasm longer and longer and longer. His soft cock drips fat ribbons of semen onto the sheets, swaying gently with each thrust back onto Deacon until there's nothing left to give.

Amazing. Incredible. He gently pulls his fingers free and slides off the bed, crossing the room on shaky legs to wash his hands. He can see the bed reflected in the dirty mirror, can see Church still on his knees and panting hard, back bowed and chest pushing into the sheets with each breath.

He takes a mental picture and dries his hands. Maybe he stares a little longer in the mirror. So sue him. A man should be proud of his handiwork.

Deacon sits on the edge of the bed and pushes at Church’s hip until he bonelessly rolls onto his side, then his back. He grinds against Church's thigh in sharp jerks, matting his hair with wet as he chases his own orgasm. Church smacks him on the thigh and wedges his hand between his legs, wrist bent awkwardly and palm side up. There are hard knotty calluses on his fingers that feel incredible against his hole, a scratchy pleasure that builds on itself.

“C’mon,” says Church, his voice rough. He rubs his free hand against the grain of hair on Deacon’s belly, thumb pushing against his pubic bone. “You gonna come for me, _Henry_?”

“Please,” says Deacon, forcing Church’s thumb down further to rub at the hollow ‘tween his dick and his bush, pulling his foreskin taut with every jerky thrust. “At this point I think we’re on a - oh, _damn_  - I think we’re on a real name basis.”

“Charles? David?”

“Danse,” says Deacon, and laughs at the openly irritated expression that passes Church’s face for a brief moment.

“Deacon,” Church says and bends his knee up with a jerk, leaving Deacon no choice but to sprawl over him, chest to chest. “Deacon,” he says again and mouths at Deacon’s jaw, open mouth presses of his lips that leave a sting of stubble behind. “Come on my face.”

“Already done that, angelcake,” he says, breathlessly. “Don't wanna repeat my material.”

“Then come in my mouth.”

And yeah, okay, that works. That's a nice thought. “You slut,” he says affectionately, and pinches Church's nipple for good measure.

“Only for people who deserve it,” he says again, and raises an eyebrow in a mirror image of Deacon’s disbelieving look. “What?”

“You're deranged,” he says lightly, but still gets on his hands and knees to crawl up the bed. Look, the guy might be out of his tree but he's still offering one last blowjob for the road, and, well, that kind of math works out.

“In your case ‘deserve’ means ‘stupid enough to sleep with me,’’ he clarifies, voice muffled between Deacon’s thighs. “Can't be picky.”

“Baby, you know how to make a fella feel special.” Deacon presses down on his stomach, better to see more of Church between his thighs, eyes closed as he sucks at Deacon’s hole, nose nudging against his dick. He's got the words ‘nothing goes in’ on the tip of his tongue, a warning he's used to giving whenever some chucklefuck forgets or doesn't care enough to follow the rules, but Church doesn't push it. He takes Deacon with broad flat licks over his hole, careful not to push deep, even as Church is taking wet breaths and moaning into him like sucking dick - or sucking Deacon - is the greatest treat he's been given in months. Years, even.

Which, given the intel he's gathered, might not be that far off the truth. Living like he does… no, wrong. Wind that back, try again. _Looking_ like he does must be a real kick in the nuts to someone as vain as Church. Going from scoring tail all over the Commonwealth to skulking around convinced that he was too old and beat up to turn heads has to rattle even the most robust of egos, even if it was total brahminshit. He might be as ugly as an old boot now, but the externals were never that good looking g to begin with. People were drawn to Church ‘coz of his imperious confidence, his bulldozer personality. Those he still had in spades, even if the first one had taken a beating in the past few years.

 _Don't try to justify this_ , Deacon tells himself. _You beautiful idiot._

“Good boy,” says Deacon, and clutches at Church’s coarse hair when that gets him a sharp suck. “Fuck, keep that up. Right there.”

Church says something incomprehensible into Deacon’s hole, and moans when Deacon tugs at his hair again. He gets a good handful of greying hair, weaves it ‘tween his knuckles and yanks hard enough to burn.

“Jesus,” says Church, leaning back into Deacon's grip, mouth free and panting, eyes shut against the sting of instinctive tears. “Fuck.”

“Don't pull my hair, asshole.” He can't stop the moan that spills from his lips when Deacon does just that, gentler this time, and he snaps his lips shut and glares at him with his one red-rimmed working eye.

“Okay,” says Deacon, all sugar and spice. “Don't be my good boy and suck Daddy’s dick like I know you want to. Be that way.”

“You are fucking insufferable,” mutters Church, but he swallows Deacon’s dick to the root and sucks like an old fashioned holotape nudie performer, loud and messy, like he's getting paid to do a job he'd happily do for free.

“Good,” says Deacon. “Long pause for dramatic tension. Boy.” He rubs at Church’s scalp and tries not to break his nose as he rides his face, little sharp rolls of his hips as he fucks his mouth and chases the slippery fizz of his orgasm.

Church pressing his broad thumb against his asshole is the magic trick that gets him over the line, fucking again, the sudden unexpected pressure making him jerk forward into Church’s mouth. He sucks him hard enough that it almost hurts, pulling his foreskin tight as Deacon gets harder on his tongue. Church slaps him away with his free hand even as Deacon is saying _shit, shit, let me rub it, baby let me--_ and then he's erupting in Church’s mouth, pulse after pulse of wet filling his mouth and spilling down his cheeks, his chin.

Church spits out the mouthful threatening to drown him and sucks him through it, moaning like he's the one getting off, eyes closed and blissful as Deacon says stupid cum-addled shit and pulls Church’s hair, drawing out his orgasm on Church’s mouth, cock throbbing and his guts clamping down tight.

It's good. It's so fucking good. It's with the worst person on earth but fuck, it's _so good_.

They collapse onto the bed, flat on their backs, sweaty skin sticking to dirty sheets.

“You needed that bad, huh?”

To his surprise Church laughs at that, a rusty bark of noise that fills the small room for a brief bright moment. “You could say that,” he says, and turns his face to the sheet, blotting away the sweat beading ‘round his temples and the wet cum ‘round his mouth. “Just a bit.”

Deacon stares at the ceiling and opens his mouth.

Church takes his hand and squeezes it gently. “Don't,” he says gruffly. “Whatever asinine shit you're about to say, don't.”

Deacon makes a mmmhmm noise in the back of his throat and squeezes back.

To his surprise Church rolls onto his side and shoves at the pillow until he's comfortable, one arm folded up and under his ear.

“Planning on staying the night?”

“Wasn't lying when I said it's been a long day.” He reaches back and grabs Deacon’s hand, putting it down on his hip. “Lay down. Go to sleep.”

Every instinct Deacon has says leave, leave, leave. Book it now while he's disarmed, vanish over the horizon. Make it a clean break after a messy night. Disengage. Stop. Go. But, hey, he's a fool too. He's a beautiful idiot with a head of no hair and dreams of making it big in Hollywood, etcetera etcetera and so forth.

He should… he should go.

He turns off the bedside lamp and gingerly tucks himself against Church’s back, stiff as a board.

“I haven't slept next to someone in six years,” says Church eventually. “Think of it as a parting gift.”

“I prefer a nice thank you note,” says Deacon on autopilot. “Maybe some candied almonds.”

“You can take this back north with you,” says Church, ignoring him. “‘Old man can't get it up, can't fuck, just wants to sleep next to anyone who can put up with him.’ Whatever that's worth with your little synth liberation group, you earned it.”

The bitterness in his tone is so raw that Deacon feels compelled to sit up and shake him by the shoulder. “Hey. _Hey_. There's only space for one self deprecating wisenheimer in this scenario and I've got that part on lock.” He pauses for a moment. “Also the fact that you're down to one eye is maybe more important. I'd include that.”

Church sighs into the dark. “Go to sleep, Deacon. Henry. Whatever you want.”

He makes a scoffing noise in the dark, more to make a point than anything else, and settles back down closer this time. He rubs his legs together. There's a burning prickle between his thighs, a warning of beard burn to come.

“Next time we do this you have to shave before you're allowed to besmirch my presence.” He blindly pats up Church’s arm and roughs up the stubble on Church's chin, scratchy against the grain. “This is going to hurt like a bitch tomorrow. You know what? I take it back. You're not my good boy at all.”

Church grunts and kisses Deacon’s knuckles. “I’m voluntarily sleeping in the wet spot,” he says gruffly. “I'm the best goddamn boy you know.”


End file.
